


Just Enough

by 1863



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extra Treat, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 13:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20210266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: In the wake of Iosef's death, Avi only has his instincts to help him pull Viggo back from the brink.





	Just Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NeverwinterThistle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/gifts).

> I love your fic for this tiny rarepair so much! I hope you enjoy this little treat. ❤️
> 
> Nominated song: 'Empty Pack of Cigarettes' by Joseph Angel (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDrJa-dTTPc).

Dying sunlight slants in through the windows as night begins to fall, reflecting off the black marble of the bar. It matches the flickering glow of the fireplace and makes strange shadows dance over Viggo’s face as he stands, still and silent, staring blankly into the tumbler of vodka in his hand. 

He hasn’t spoken or moved for what seems like a long, long time. Avi watches him in silence too, just smoking cigarette after cigarette as he tries to come up with something to say to a man whose only son has just been shot in the head.

He wonders if Viggo is still high. Avi smelled the weed even before he’d opened the office door, about an hour after Kirill told him the news – that John had done what John always does, and finished a job no matter what the cost. 

He’d given Viggo as much time as he could before he went in after him, knowing Viggo would need the space to be alone for a while. Once he was inside, though, Avi immediately went into lawyer mode – quick and calm and professional, cleaning up the marijuana and helping Viggo into his coat before swiftly driving him back home. Viggo hadn’t said a word, just let himself be directed this way or that while Avi took care of the details for him, and it was that, more than anything, that set off the first warning bells in Avi’s head.

And now, sitting at the bar as the silence gets heavier and heavier, Avi doesn't even try to clamp down on the anxiety that's making his stomach churn the longer Viggo stays still. The look on his face is impassive but Avi can read between the lines; can see the plans forming in the hard glint of those eyes and the cold, clean fury in the flat line of that mouth. Can see those same plans inevitably, disastrously spinning out of control.

Avi flicks the ash from yet another cigarette. The tray is full to overflowing now, the pile of stubs as clear a sign as any of how sure he is that things will go to shit if he lets Viggo's thoughts reach their natural conclusion.

"Viggo," he starts, and of course, that's the moment when Viggo finally chooses to move. He tosses the shot of vodka back, swallowing it down like it's water.

"Marcus," he says.

Avi blinks. "What about him?"

"He betrayed us. He was protecting John the entire time." Viggo's voice is dangerously calm. "We cannot let this stand."

"Viggo –"

"Call Kirill. We'll ambush him tonight, he'll be walking home from buying ingredients for his fucking hippie smoothies soon –"

"_Viggo_."

The abrupt silence has less to do with Avi’s interruption than the fingers he's wrapped around Viggo's wrist. Viggo stares at his hand the same way he stared into his vodka a minute ago – blankly, like he's not even seeing it. He’s gone silent again, saying nothing despite the fact that Avi is squeezing hard enough to bruise. But then, Avi doesn’t expect him to – they both understand that there are some things that can only be communicated through pain. Or rather, that some pains can only be countered by the infliction of others.

"John will kill you,” Avi says. He keeps his voice quiet, as calm as he can make it, which admittedly isn’t very calm at all. "You know that. And you know that he'd be well within his rights to kill _all_ of us if you went after Marcus, so –"

"_What_," Viggo hisses, the veneer of self-control snapping so suddenly that Avi flinches. But his grip around Viggo's wrist doesn't waver, and when he doesn't reply Viggo just slumps against the bar, the burst of rage extinguishing just as quickly as it flared up. "My son," he says, voice like gravel, as though he's choking on the words themselves. "My _son_ –"

Avi's on the other side of the bar before he even realises what he's doing, one hand against the nape of Viggo's neck and the other still tight around Viggo’s wrist. He leans forward and presses their foreheads together, for once not letting himself hesitate at all, and from the way Viggo immediately leans into him, no split-second of tension in his body like there usually is before he gives into it, Avi’s instincts are on the right track.

He doesn't do or say anything else for a long time, just stands there listening to Viggo's breathing as it slowly evens out. Viggo’s eyes are closed and the fingers of his free hand dig hard into Avi's hip, holding on like Avi's a lifeline, like one of them might disappear if he doesn't hang on tight.

“I can’t even blame him,” Viggo says eventually. His voice is barely audible, words breathed out against Avi’s mouth like a secret, like a confession. “Isn’t that terrible? The man killed my son and I can’t even blame him for it. I want to rip his throat out,” he adds, “but I cannot blame him for what he did.” Viggo laughs a little, but it’s a bitter sound. “I knew John would bring a tidal wave of vengeance upon us. Because that’s what John is – a force of nature. Unstoppable. Unreasonable.” Viggo sucks in a breath. “Inevitable.” 

He straightens and opens his eyes. 

“But then,” he adds, “so am I.”

“Viggo,” Avi starts, as the tiny bubble of calm he’d managed to carve out starts to crack. “Don’t –”

“I’m calling Kirill,” Viggo interrupts. “You find my tools; I’ll be doing this myself. Every cut, every burn, every bullet, every scream. Every drop of his blood. Marcus will know exactly how –”

The tirade keeps gathering steam and Avi knows it won't be long before it becomes impossible to pull Viggo back again. So he takes a breath and follows his instincts again, pushing past the feeling that this time, it still might not be enough. 

Hands on either side of Viggo’s face and forcibly holding him still, mouth on mouth and lips on lips and tongue pushing in, Avi steals Viggo's words, accepts his rage and tries, maybe, to swallow a portion of his grief. For a moment, Viggo is utterly still and Avi’s not sure if he’s made a major mistake. But then Viggo is moving, shoving Avi against the rough brick wall at the end of the bar and kissing him like a man starved for it. His hands tear at Avi’s clothes as his teeth rip into Avi’s lips and Avi lets him do it, welcomes the sting and the blood and the way the exposed brick scrapes against his skin. 

"I know what you're doing," Viggo pants against his mouth, when he finally takes a moment to pull back.

His hands are painfully tight around Avi's wrists, pressing them into the wall at either side of Avi's head. There's blood on his lips, too – _my blood_, Avi thinks, a little dazed – and his pupils are blown wide, probably from the weed as much as anything else.

Avi looks him right in the eye and doesn't back down. He knows exactly what he's risking here but when the alternative is exponentially worse, he's prepared to take whatever shitty odds he can get. If he loses, so be it. Better that than Viggo losing everything.

"Do you?" he asks. Viggo's jaw tightens, as does his grip.

"Just like the whores and the callboys," Viggo says, quiet and sharp and perfectly, perfectly aimed. "Thinking your tired tricks are unique enough to distract me –" 

"I'm not trying to distract you," Avi interrupts. The shots hit their target but he ignores the sting; they've been at this long enough that he knows Viggo is full of shit right now, regardless of what neither of them has ever said. Or will ever say.

"What, then?" Viggo's mouth twists, derisive and cruel. To Avi, though, it's painfully obvious that the cruelty isn't aimed at him. "Are you trying to save me from myself?"

Avi tries to pull one of his hands free. He's not really surprised when Viggo lets him, releasing his wrist but wrapping his fingers around his throat instead. It's like chess, Avi thinks as the pressure builds, squeezing just tight enough that he starts to have trouble breathing but not so much that he can't speak. Give up one thing to gain another; press your advantage even if you lose a little ground. 

But Viggo's the one who taught Avi how to play, and Avi's always been a quick study. 

"No," he answers. Avi raises his freed hand and presses it against Viggo's chest, where he can feel a heartbeat racing, thumping too hard and too fast against his palm. He licks his lips and tastes his own blood on his tongue and for some reason, it makes his resolve that much stronger.

Viggo raises an eyebrow, impatient and unimpressed and so deeply, thoroughly lost in his own head that the obvious answer doesn't even occur to him.

Avi shakes his head, as much as he can with Viggo's hand still around his throat, and forces himself to tell the truth. 

"I'm trying to save you for me."

Viggo freezes. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out, and slowly, slowly, his hands fall away from Avi's neck and wrist until they hang limply at his sides. He bows his head, so low that Avi can't see his face, and really, Avi thinks, that's probably the point.

"Stay here," Avi says, and carefully guides Viggo's hands to his own waist. He waits until Viggo's fingers curl around him before he pulls Viggo closer, one hand against his chest again and the other at the back of his neck, tugging gently until their foreheads touch. "Stay here," Avi repeats. It's not really a demand and not really a request, just the only two words Avi can think of to say. 

"With you?" Viggo asks. 

Or maybe not the only two. 

"With me," he agrees.

One heartbeat, two, three… Avi counts them as they thud against his palm; counts the ones inside his own chest, too. He's well into the double digits before he finally feels Viggo nod.

Avi closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The smell of weed is still in Viggo's clothes and hair, as is the vodka on his breath, but on top of all that is the smell of cigarettes – Avi's cigarettes, a whole packet of them. It's a familiar combination, and from the way Viggo inhales sharply and leans into him, just a little more, it's a comforting one, too.

He knows it's only a temporary reprieve – that Viggo's anger could still blow up tomorrow and take everything down with it – but tomorrow is tomorrow and this, right here, is now. And right now, he's got Viggo pressed against him and it's quiet and _safe_ and for now, Avi thinks, counting heartbeats again until he loses track of the number altogether, just for now – this is enough. Just enough. 


End file.
